The Annual McKinley Winter Harvest Festival
by shan14
Summary: Blaine, a marginally successful Journalist at The Dalton, never expected a quick assignment to the small town to McKinley would be any more than a nuisance. Little does he know that small towns have a way of sucking you in.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Written for Klaine Week, Day 2: AU over at Tumblr.**

ooo**  
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The small town of McKinley lies roughly in the middle of Nowhere, America.

At least that's how Wes had described it.

"You head up north...and keep going north, until you reach the point where your fingers want to drop off inside your gloves. Then you've hit McKinley."

"Charming," Blaine had muttered, stuffing his laptop and notebooks into his satchel as he clambered out of the office.

Ten hours later and Blaine has turned off the highway onto dirt roads, winding his way across the dull landscape; the occasional farm, agricultural land, cows shuffling together as they eat; spotted with clusters of trees feebly growing their leaves out following winter. It's late May and spring has sprung across the rest of the country, evidently forgetting this small patch of land up north. Dressed in the light jeans and button down he'd worn to work this morning, Blaine shivers even as he cranks the heat up.

'_It's fucking cold here'_ he texts Wes. _'Why is it so fucking cold? It's almost summer!'_

He feels around in the backseat of the car and tugs his linen scarf free, wrapping it twice around his neck and snuggling into the slight warmth it provides. He can feel his fingers tingle slightly as they head towards being numb and wishes he'd brought along his woolen gloves. God, he realizes with dread, he only has the light jacket he'd thrown in the backseat a few days ago when it had been rainy – not even a decent woolen sweater!

"I'm going to freeze to death in my car in the middle of nowhere," he mutters moodily, squinting as the sun continues to drop and the road becomes less even. He estimates one more hour of driving until he reaches McKinley – there he can find a motel and curl up in bed for the night, perhaps with a decent hot meal, before he starts work in the morning.

Wes' memo regarding his assignment had been brief and their quick discussion even briefer –

"The Annual festival up in McKinley starts in a few days, I want you to go up there and find out what it does for the towns economy. How many people it brings in. Whether they see any growth after it. They've been running the festival for the past twenty five years, so it must be doing something for the town!"

Blaine had wrinkled his forehead in confusion, picking at the pens scattered haphazardly across the editor's desk.

"Why, exactly, am I writing a piece about a small town festival?"

"People love that sort of thing..." Wes had replied, snatching Blaine's hand away from the small decorative gavel by his computer, "Everyone wants to go back to the old days – small town, local store, friendly butcher...you know."

"...Not really..."

"Blaine! People need to believe that there's an escape from the downturn. That perhaps we can go back to the way things were...they see a small town holding a successful festival, bringing in people and jobs and money...it gives them hope."

Blaine had rolled his eyes, but nodded in acceptance.

"Fine," he'd grumbled, turning quickly as Wes pushed past him into the main office.

"Be back by Friday. We'll give you gas money. No expensive services though!" he'd called over his shoulder, already hovering over David's desk to discuss the coming days sports column.

"Whatever..." muttered Blaine.

It wasn't the first time he'd done a piece like this. Wes liked his ability to connect with the local people, not to mention his ability to write about them without boring the reader to tears. He'd drive up to McKinley, crash over night, interview a couple of the locals throughout the day and get a photo of the main street – perhaps he'd have one of the older shop keepers pose smiling alongside a small child – then he'd drive back through the night and be home by morning.

It would be Friday, and Friday meant things would wind down and he'd be able to slip out of work early for a drink and a few songs at the bar.

Perfect.

ooo

"I'm not going to be home by Friday," Blaine mutters despairingly, gripping his steering wheel tight and resisting the urge to pull it from the dashboard.

His car had given up over half an hour ago, the poor thing puttering to a halt and leaving Blaine stranded on the side of the road. It's chilly outside, and light is failing fast; Blaine's fingers are wrapped in the folds of his linen scarf and still feel numbed even as he blasts the heating. He tugs his scarf closer around his neck and fiddles once more with his phone.

The mechanic had said he'd be with him within the half hour. It's now been 45 minutes. Not one car has gone past.

"Middle of nowhere, America," he mutters, clapping his hands together to keep the blood flowing, "Frozen America," he amends.

He's already sent a few threatening texts Wes' way, alongside a quick one to David questioning why he ever took the job. He briefly considers calling James. They don't have plans for the evening, but occasionally his boyfriend likes to drop by his apartment unannounced for dinner. He hasn't in a while, however, and Blaine feels safe in the knowledge he won't tonight. They've been together just over two years now, almost as long as he's been writing for _The Dalton_, meeting at a New Years Party held by Nick. Lately, however, their relationship has felt...uncomfortable. Forced, even. Instead of lazy, happy silences their conversations are filled with awkward pause after awkward pause.

Maybe I'll text him, ponders Blaine, nodding decisively as the sun slips lower.

_Stuck in middle of nowhere. On assignment. Might not be back until late tomorrow. Blaine x_

He doesn't stop to think about why he doesn't sign off with love.

ooo

Ten minutes later and the beam of headlights swing around the corner, followed by the low rumble of a truck puffing up the road that comes into view as Blaine stuffs his phone in his pocket. He winds his window down and sucks in a deep breath against the frigid air – the heating has been keeping him warm apparently, outside the temperature has dropt even further.

"Heard you needed help?" asks the mechanic as he pulls up, and Blaine blinks quickly in surprise. That's not a voice one expects from a tow truck.

Gruff, edgy, mostly friendly but still a little rough around the edges – that's what one expects, not the lyrical softness that floats from where the man has wound down his window.

"Umm, yeah," he stammers. He blinks again and takes in the man – he's young, probably around the same age as Blaine, with perfectly coiffed brown hair that looks soft to touch and the most enchanting blue-green eyes. Blaine clears his throat awkwardly, well aware of the silence, and makes to get out of his car.

"I'm not sure what happened," he explains, closing the car door behind him before hugging his arms against the cold, "One minute everything was fine and the next, bam," he possibly claps his hands embarrassingly loud at this point," she just stopped..." he finishes softly.

"She?"

"Dot. Or Dorothy...I was a big Wizard of Oz fan when I was little."

Blaine has a terrible habit of speaking before thinking sometimes; his mind to mouth filter is practically non-existent. He constantly speaks out of turn with the best of intentions and is known to mutter insane thoughts as they form. Wes and David insist it's what makes him such a good journalist – a good writer – he's not afraid to ask the first, often difficult, question – and neither does he ever refrain from laying the truth bare.

Blaine, however, merely believes it makes a fool of him, daily.

"I mean...uhh."

The man smiles, his laughter puffing from his mouth in the cool air, and Blaine feels his stomach swim delightedly.

"I've been known to call mine McQueen from time to time," the man murmurs, trudging through the dirt around Blaine, before leaning over to pop the cars bonnet. He stretches over and pokes at a cable, pushing it out of the way to peer further into the engine. Blaine's never had much time for cars, some are pretty enough to admire, but mostly they're a mandatory nuisance to get him from Point A to Point B.

"Lightening, or Steve?" he asks, huddling closer to the car – and the man, incidentally – in the growing dark.

"Neither – Alexander."

The man laughs again from where he's engulfed by the car, and Blaine feels a little giddy inside; its not every day one meets a mechanic in the middle of nowhere who knows his designers. He pushes his glasses further up his nose and tries to ignore the stretch of tight jeans up the back of the other man's thighs.

"A fan?"

"You should see me on my days off," is the mumbled response. Blaine swallows thickly. He stuffs his hands deep in his pockets and scrunches his shoulders to keep his scarf in place; the sun has dipped dramatically in the past few minutes and now only slithers of daylight remain across the frozen wasteland.

"I'm Kurt, by the way."

The man straightens from the engine and holds out his hand. Blaine tugs his own hand free from his pocket and tries not to blush as Kurt watches him, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Blaine." Kurt's hand is soft, even as his firm grip meets Blaine's own, his fingers deceptively warm, and Blaine shivers lightly as the heat races up his spine.

"Well, Blaine, I wish I could say it was your battery, but I think we're dealing with the fuel pump..."

Kurt continues talking, gesturing back to engine more than once before wrapping his fingers around his arms and Blaine watches in fascination. Notes the wisp of hair knocked from its place that curls across his forehead and threatens to sweep into his vision; watches his tongue lick out to moisten his lips as the cool air clings to his skin; watches his cheeks redden slightly as the wind turns suddenly, whipping against Blaine's back until they're both shivering violently.

"...That make sense?"

"Beg pardon?" Blaine blinks, startled, and Kurt's lips curl up in that same smile from earlier, like he's slightly amused by Blaine's ineptitude.

"Sorry," he mumbles, blushing.

"I should be able to replace it tomorrow, was the main point. Where were you headed?"

"McKinley. I'm not too far from there, yes?"

Kurt nods quickly, the wisp of hair finally slinking across his eyes, and Blaine watches as the mechanic quickly sweeps it behind his ear, tucking his hands into his tight jeans pockets afterwards to keep them warm.

"You're about a half hour off. I'm actually based in a small town about 10 minutes away, however, Sylvester...have you heard of it?"

Blaine's not, but until this morning he'd never heard of McKinley, either, "Do you have anywhere I could stay there?"

Kurt freezes a second; looking over Blaine's shoulder, before ducking his gaze back to the ground. He's contemplating his answer and Blaine tries to ignore the fluttering in his stomach as Kurt bites down on his lip.

"Um, well we don't have a motel or anything...but I have a spare room. If you wanted. Free of charge, and everything. I'll even cook."

Blood rushes past his ears deafeningly and Blaine swallows thickly. Kurt glances down again shyly and does this endearing little shuffle; Blaine can't help the fond smile that grows and blames it for his next response.

"That sounds wonderful, as long as you're sure it won't put you out."

He probably shouldn't take the invitation of a stranger on the side of the road in Nowhere, America. No matter how handsome the stranger might be. This is always how horror movies start – and he, the gorgeous victim, always falls for it.

"Not at all!" Kurt answers quickly, biting his lip, and Blaine ignores all the horror films he's ever seen to takes Kurt's offer of waiting in the slightly warmer truck.

ooo

"Why are you headed to McKinley?" asks Kurt as they amble towards Sylvester. Blaine's car is attached to the back of the truck and he can hear it trundle along behind them. Night has settled, and the eerie darkness only heightens Blaine's awareness of the man to his right.

"I'm writing a piece about the festival being held there next week. I'm a journalist, back in the city," Blaine explains.

"Oh yeah?" Kurt asks, turning towards him, seemingly interested. "Would I know the paper you write for?"

"Umm, _The Dalton_...it's not exactly _The Times_, but we do pretty well around the area."

Kurt bites his lip again and Blaine can't help but notice he does it when nervous, or embarrassed.

"You've not heard of it?"

"No," Kurt smiles, "Sorry," he adds, "But if it's any consolation, I don't even think we get it up here."

Blaine looks out the window across the vast, inky landscape, slightly foggy through the glass from their breaths and the dull light of the moon.

He hears Kurt's sharp inhale moments before he speaks, and turns, expectantly, as the other man steals a glance towards him. "Why do people want to read about our festival? It's not exactly the social event of the season."

"To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure why they'll want to read about it either...but that's my job, to find and write something they'll read anyway..." he quips.

Kurt snorts, and then blushes, grinning sideways at Blaine who only hopes his own smile isn't as blatant as it feels.

"I guess you'll want to talk to the people involved then?"

Blaine nods, "A few...might take some pictures of the main street. The usual. I'll go out tomorrow whilst she's being fixed and then head off in the evening."

He almost doesn't catch Kurt's shift in posture, "You're not going to stay for the festival?"

Blaine hesitates, eyes slipping sideways even as he faces forwards, and catches the taut look that passes Kurt's features.

"No, probably not. I need to be back in the city by Friday."

Kurt nods but doesn't speak, eyes trained forward as he turns the car off the back road.

Ever so slowly, lights across a hill blink into view. Blaine leans forward in his seat unconsciously, and within minutes the town of Sylvester sprawls before him. Small houses and the odd shop dot the road; tendrils of smoke curling from chimneys at every few – curtains are drawn across windows and Blaine can see the flicker of light and movement behind a few – people shuffling around their kitchens and dining tables. It's going on 7 pm and Blaine's own stomach is rumbling.

They turn down what Blaine imagines is the main street and he smiles at the image it must present during the day – it will be perfect, if Wes allows him an image alongside his headline. There's a town hall, its majestic stature only rivaled by the church at the end of the road; most of the shop fronts are closed for the evening. There's a pub on the corner with its lights on and a fair amount of people scattered around the tables and chairs outside - _Pucks Place_, the sign reads proudly over the main entrance, "Good food there, if you're after something for dinner," says Kurt, startling Blaine from his thoughts.

"I thought you promised me a home cooked meal?" he asks, eyes widening promptly at his own words.

"I mean, you don't have to, obviously...your offer was kind enough without you doing anything like that...the offer is still there, yes? Because I'm happy to find somewhere else to stay..."

"Blaine," Kurt smiles, tips of his cheeks the faintest red, and Blaine could swear his fingers twitch from where they rest near Blaine's own in between them. He wishes he had the courage to reach out and grasp them – Kurt seems like the type of person whose hand would be nice to hold.

"Of course the offer still stands. I'm not going to throw you out in this weather. And I did promise you dinner. I just thought you might like the option...for all you know I could be a terrible cook."

"But are you?"

Kurt does blush this time, "No."

"Good."

ooo

"This is fucking delicious...shit, I'm sorry. I have this terrible habit of speaking my mind...and when I'm really relaxed I tend to swear...and usually I'm really good at keeping that back around people I've only just met...but this chicken is delicious."

Blaine continues rambling, gesturing with his fork, as Kurt leans back and takes a sip of his wine. His lips quirk into a smile around the curve of his glass and Blaine decides to shut up.

"Sorry," he huffs, and sets his fork down, blushing.

Kurt laughs outright this time, head thrown back lazily, and Blaine is startled by how happy it makes him – seeing Kurt so relaxed.

"I know my chicken's good but I've never reduced someone to such a ramble before," he teases.

They pair have settled into easy conversation ever since arriving at Kurt's from the garage. Dorothy is locked up securely, awaiting treatment, and he and Kurt have spent the remainder of their discovering more about each other as Kurt had cooked dinner and Blaine sat, sipping at his wine, at the kitchen bench.

Blaine learns: Kurt lives with his father – the owner of Hummel Tire and Lube, though his father is out at present - Kurt shies away from explaining and Blaine leaves it alone, not willing to pry. He's twenty six years old, not even a year older than Blaine, and works mostly admin at the garage. He's perfectly capable of the psychical work, he assures Blaine, having been raised around motors since birth, but prefers working in the office nowadays. He also works part time at the bakery - _Sugar and Spice _– and teaches music lessons at the local primary school on Fridays.

"Rachel, the primary school teacher – we hated each other growing up. But in high school we became quite close so now I go in and we give singing and acting and piano lessons to all the kids...it's fun."

Kurt smiles softly – his words and actions gentler in comparison to Blaine's rambunctious own – but the curl of heat from the crackling fireplace and the heavy set of good food and wine has seemingly loosened his tongue.

"I went to school with most of the people around here actually...Puck, and Finn – he works at the pub in the night – but he also does most of the physical labour at the garage. His mother and my father are seeing each other."

Blaine raises an eyebrow from where he's pressed into the back of the couch. Kurt's living area is small and cosy, centered around the crackling fire, and Blaine tugs the knitted blanket Kurt had thrown at him earlier tighter around his legs – already he's feeling much warmer.

"That must be interesting. What happened to your mother, if you don't mind me asking?"

Kurt shuffles in his own seat, tucking his feet underneath him and curling his toes.

"It is strange, but nice. Dad deserves to be happy. And Carole is the most wonderful woman anyone could ask for..."

He pauses a moment, looking into the fire, and Blaine watches as the flickering flames highlight the sharp dimensions of his cheek bones, throwing shadows into his blue-green eyes that dance delicately across his pale flesh.

He's breathtaking, curled up by the fire, and Blaine clamps down on his hands to stop them reaching out.

"My mother died. A long time ago. I was about...eight. She was wonderful. The most wonderful person in the world..."

Blaine pauses a moment – he's used to conversation; used to listening to people, reading each nuance and sigh. He's spoken to heroes and victims and everyday people and even some quite famous – but in all his time working, which admittedly isn't all the long – he's still never figured out how to deal with grief.

"I'm sorry," he offers sincerely, and reaches across the table to grip at Kurt's fingers.

It's a small, quick touch, and Kurt's sharp inhale sets his heart beating rapidly – he awaits the quick pull back he's come to expect – and instead is delighted when Kurt's fingers curl inwards, tighter. They rest their hands comfortably between their bodies and Blaine can't think of anywhere else he'd rather be than wrapped up warmly, the crackle and pop of a fire behind him, holding the hand of this gorgeous man.

"Do you like journalism?"

"Hmm?" Blaine responds, "Yeah...I guess. I've always enjoyed writing. It seemed logical."

"But?"

He almost laughs as Kurt prods – most people take him at his word.

"You don't believe me?"

The other man shrugs, smiles knowingly.

"I miss...the freedom that journalism doesn't really allow...at least not where I am. Writing was my escape growing up. Writing and music. But it's so structured, and...doctored, by the time it goes to print. Sometimes I read back articles I've written and wonder why the hell I put the hours into it..."

"So you mean you're _not_ exhilarated by the thought of the Annual Winter Harvest Festival?" Kurt deadpans, curling his hand away in mock surprise.

Blaine laughs delightedly; snatching back the other mans fingers, as the two smile warmly at each other. Blaine's certain he wouldn't need the blanket, or the fire – not if Kurt's warm eyes stayed on his.

"Wait," he ponders slowly, rewinding Kurt's last comment, "_Winter_ harvest Festival?"

"Hmm," Kurt nods, nonchalantly.

"It's late May."

"So?"

"So, winter ended months ago."

"Have you noticed how cold it is out there?"

"Yes...but..."

"Yes, but if we held the Annual Winter Festival in the middle of winter either no body would go or everyone would freeze to death."

Blaine nods slowly.

"Yeah, but why not call it the Spring Festival then?" he attempts.

"Everyone wanted a winter festival."

"But it's not in winter."

"Didn't we just go over this? Everyone wanted a winter festival. They wanted to ice skate in the middle of the town and sell knitwear and cook chestnuts. But if it were actually in winter no one would go. So. Annual Winter Harvest Festival in Spring."

Blaine blinks in confusion.

"That makes no sense."

"Welcome to small town America Blaine, nothing much makes sense here."

He shakes his head, feels Kurt's eyes on him fondly, and looks around the room, eyes settling on a photograph on the mantelpiece. It's a beautiful landscape – no doubt of the surrounding area at a much more forgiving time of year. Soft hues of pink and purple paint the sky over a green valley – Blaine picks himself up, still wrapped in the woolen blanket, and steps forward to inspect the photo closer.

"This is gorgeous...did you take this?"

He turns back to Kurt and notes the other mans blush. He nods quickly.

"Sometimes, when I'm not a mechanic or a secretary or a baker or a music teacher, I like to pretend I'm a photographer...its mostly just of the town though...nothing too spectacular."

Blaine scoffs, and keeps his eyes on Kurt, daring the other man to meet his gaze.

"I beg to differ. This is gorgeous," he presses, starring into Kurt's blue-green pools.

"You should come with me tomorrow."

"What?" asks Kurt, standing to pick up their wine glasses. It's getting on in the evening – they've talked for over three hours – and Blaine has an early morning.

"Come with me tomorrow when I interview people. You can take pictures for me. I promise you'll get the credit...I'll even send you a copy of the paper seeing as you don't get it up here," he begs, smiling sweetly.

Kurt shuffles on the spot, coming back from the kitchen, obviously torn.

"But your car..."

"Can wait. Honestly. I'd rather have good pictures and be a little late back home, than be stuck with what ever crap job I would do...I mean, obviously if you have other work to do, that's fine...but if it's just Dot...she can wait."

"No, yeah," Kurt stutters, stepping closer to Blaine, "I've actually taken the week off everything..." his eyes catch on the photos scattered along the mantelpiece, crinkling in pain, and not for the first time Blaine wonders what's happening behind his bright eyes.

"Okay," he whispers, smiling. "That sounds good. Just as long as I get to choose who and what I photograph."

"Of course."

Blaine nods and has to stop himself from folding Kurt into a hug, instead holding out a hand to shake warmly.

"I'll see you in the morning then," Kurt murmurs. His gaze lingers on Blaine's a moment, dipping slowly down his cheek, before he turns abruptly and slips into his bedroom.

"Goodnight Blaine. Sweet dreams," he calls, closing the door behind him.

Blaine all but collapses into the spare bedroom, curling onto the ready-made bed.

It's soft and warm and smells deliciously of vanilla. It's decorated tastefully, but even more so looks completely lived in, despite everything being packed away in place.

Blaine settles beneath the covers and closes his eyes; ponders who the vanilla room might belong to and thinks of Kurt ambling through the small towns of Sylvester and McKinley with him tomorrow.

He sleeps better than he has in years.


	2. Chapter 2

The mains streets of Sylvester are quiet in the daytime – the children packed off to school whilst the adults trundle to work. Blaine tugs his scarf closer around his neck and thanks mercy for the warm sweater Kurt had provided him with that morning. It smells like vanilla – like the warm blankets he'd woken wrapped in as dawn broke – and the sleeves fall down past his palm so that he can tuck his fingers in the curl of fabric.

"Where to first?" he asks as the pair turn the corner. Spread before them the occasional wanderer can be seen ambling between shops or sitting beneath the colourful umbrellas at _Sugar And Spice_ with a coffee. _Pucks Place_ is closed in the early morning but Blaine can hear voices inside laughing loudly, whilst a little down the road at the _Cheerio's Diner_, a soft melody is playing out the open window_._

Kurt takes in his hometown with a soft frown before nodding to a small, colourful shop down the end of the street.

"Tina's first. She runs a small nursery and provides all the flowers for the festival."

ooo

The nursery is bursting with colour and sickly sweet to smell, even in such cold weather, and only the mingling of the grungy underlying of soil stops Blaine from coughing his lungs up. He's been somewhat allergic to flowers ever since he was a child, but the short Asian woman rounding the bench looks so delighted by his and Kurt's presence that he doesn't have the heart to step out of the shop.

"Good morning Kurt! What are you doing here?" the woman Blaine assumes to be Tina asks. She's hidden behind a giant pot of primula's and winter pansies and Blaine is surprised he can still recognise them. He can remember his mother planting similar flowers in the winter, and all at once he pictures the house he grew up in with it's perfectly trimmed hedges and the long brick pathway lined with flowers up to the front door.

"Who's your friend?"

Tina sets the pot down on the bench and rubs the soil from her fingers onto her apron, leaving dark streaks of mud down her front and rather defeating the purpose of trying to clean them. She's appraising Blaine with the same half intrigued, half suspicious glance he gets whenever he travels through small towns, and whilst it usually makes him uncomfortable, there's a gleam in Tina's eye that tells him she doesn't care who he is.

She's much more interested that he's with Kurt.

He smiles discreetly – Tina keeps flicking her gaze between the two in a way she probably thinks is subtle. Blaine likes her already.

"This is Blaine Anderson. He's a journalist from _The Dalton_."

Tina's glance turns hesitant and Blaine gets the feeling she's never read _The Dalton_. Not that he would expect her too. Whilst Kurt's assumption the night previous that they don't receive _The Dalton_ was incorrect - Blaine knows for a fact that the small town does sell copies - Westerville is more than 5 hours away, much more than that when you factor in traffic and the winding roads that lead here and the only reason Sylvester receives the paper is because their local one stopped running during the 90's.

Blaine remembers Wes telling him about it one afternoon when he'd stumbled across a report detailing their readership. As a rule, _The Dalton_ doesn't cover any of McKinley or Sylvester's local news, but some of the residents like to read its coverage of state wide issues, and if it increases readership, they aren't likely to say no to publishing this far north.

And occasionally, like Blaine's current assignment, Wes has the bright idea to cover small town America and some lucky journalist is sent into the middle of nowhere to gather their news.

"He's here to report on the Harvest Festival," Kurt is explaining by Blaine's side, and his mention pulls Blaine back to the current moment. He extends his hand and can't help but smile as Tina's small, slightly damp hand shakes his.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," he says, smiling warmly. Tina giggles and rubs her hands down her apron once more. "Kurt's told me you provide all the flowers for the festival."

"That's right," Tina answers. She leads the boys down the rows and rows of plants; some potted, some in small trays on tabletops, and stops at the end where a whole table is covered in an array of different coloured petunias. "What's so interesting about the festival that they've got a journalist writing about it?"

Blaine laughs shortly, "You tell me."

Tina looks somewhat taken back. She picks up a trowel and a pair of gloves lying on the table and puts them on, digging into a fresh patch of soil. After a moments silence she begins, "Well, it's one of the few times during the year that everyone really comes together," she explains, digging a shallow hole.

Before long she has a fresh line of seeds planted and is telling Blaine about the flowers the mayor has ordered to be arranged in the McKinley town square in the shape of a hay bail; about how one year it rained so heavily that the entire festival was hauled into the town hall and about how she met her husband, Mike, at the festival when they were 5 and Mike and his family had just moved to town to open the grocery store.

"I can't explain it," she murmurs; face alight with a soft smile, her lip caught delicately between her teeth. "Both McKinley and Sylvester are so small and everybody knows everybody – meaning there's no privacy and someone is always angry at someone else. But we always get on at the festival."

Blaine can hear Kurt snort softly somewhere in the background. He'd wandered off with his camera a short while ago and through the haze of Tina's stories Blaine had been able to make out the quiet snap and click of the shutter. He'd asked Kurt to take photo's for him last night, and he's pleased the other man has taken him up on the request. He can still picture the shot of the valley hung over Kurt's mantel, and thinks that if he can capture some of that calm, some of that quiet nature in his images and his words, then the story will be worth the broken car and the frostbite in his fingers.

"It sounds wonderful," he tells Tina, and hopes the hand he places on her arm feels genuine. "Thank you," he says and squeezes.

She nods in delight. "How do you know Kurt?"

She turns to her friend down the end of the nursery where he is obviously trying to capture the light splaying of a quietly gurgling water feature. Blaine studies him a moment, caught in his quiet concentration, until the heavy set of Tina watching him creeps into the air.

"My car broke down last night. He came and picked me up," Blaine explains, turning back to her with a sheepish grin.

Tina glances at him sharply. "Really?" she questions. Blaine nods quickly. The woman shakes her head and then shrugs, laughing it off. "You seem like you know each other, that's all," she hastens to explain. "I thought you might have met him in the city."

"He's a journalist Tina," Kurt interrupts before Blaine can answer, "It's his job to find things about people," Kurt says. He stops in front of them. His camera is resting around his neck and his hands are bunched in his pockets. Blaine wonders if that's what Kurt really thinks of him, that he digs into peoples lives until it feels like he's part of them, whilst really it's all for the stories.

"Did you get some nice photos?" he asks instead. Kurt looks mildly affronted, and Tina laughs delightedly.

"Of course," Kurt replies petulantly.

"Kurt's won the art prize the last 2 years, haven't you?" Tina teases, nudging her friend's shoulder.

For a brief moment Blaine watches as Kurt's face shifts; his eyes flutter closed, but then seconds later he's preening. Blaine tilts his head curiously and watches the two bicker, shuffling the brief flash of anguish into the ever expanding Kurt Hummel folder.

And then he remembers Kurt's words and feels a stab of guilt. He is, after all, a journalist, and digging is what he does best. That doesn't mean he isn't genuinely interested in people.

But even that doesn't stop the uneasy feeling in his stomach.

ooo

They leave Tina's nursery with a promise to send her copies of the best of Kurt's photos and as they emerge back onto the street Kurt leads them down the south end toward the pub and the Town Hall.

"It's nearly lunch," he explains offhandedly, fiddling with the buttons on his camera. He's gone quiet ever since Tina pulled him aside and whispered something in his ear whilst they were leaving, and Blaine feels at a loss to explain or fix the situation. He's only known Kurt a day, but he likes him. Likes his well-timed words and his quiet wit and his appreciation for light and colour. He doesn't want things to be awkward between them.

"We can go to Puck's. It should be open. Or we can go to the diner and speak to Quinn and Santana." Kurt finally glances towards him. "It's up to you."

Blaine shrugs. He's really not all that hungry. He says so and Kurt just nods, continuing to fiddle.

Blaine's not quite sure if he did something wrong, and if so what it was, besides being a journalist. And really, if that's the problem, then there's nothing he can do about it. Kurt did invite him into his home after knowing that fact. He steps a little closer, nudging Kurt's shoulder playfully as they amble down the sidewalk.

"You didn't tell me you could paint," he says, thinking of Tina's comment about the art show.

He's beginning to think Kurt Hummel is quite the bit of an overachiever, if he's honest. Fixing cars and taking photos and winning art contests and just generally being gorgeous – and _wow_, where did that thought come from.

Blaine pauses a moment as Kurt eyes him sideways and then hastens to catch up as the other man continues walking.

Of course Kurt is good looking. Blaine can see that objectively. Anybody would see that objectively, he thinks. Kurt's all long legs and flowing hard lines hidden beneath layers of soft looking fabric and the slop of his nose is fascinating as Blaine watches him from the side.

He spent a great deal of last night marvelling at the gorgeous man before him and holding his hand by the fire, but in the cold light of morning he'd reasoned his initial rapture away as pure exhaustion. Yes, objectively, Blaine would say Kurt is very good looking, and last night he'd been cold and hungry and Kurt had emerged as his saviour with a warm house. Of course he'd been smitten.

But there's a curl in his stomach and a tingling in his fingertips when Kurt brushes past him that suggests now that it's morning other parts of his mind and body also agree.

For instance, he perhaps shouldn't be so enthralled by the curl of Kurt's lips when he smiles.

Not his smirk, which Blaine feels intimately acquainted with after only one night; but rather that wide, beaming smile Blaine has only seen once or twice.

It was there when he complimented Kurt's décor early in the morning, when the other man had pressed a wonderfully smelling cup of coffee in his hands but before the caffeine had had the chance to pull Blaine from the stupor of sleep.

Blaine's mouth has always been able to ramble, especially in the mornings, and this morning he's pretty sure he spent 5 minutes detailing how amazing the colour of the tiles in Kurt's shower accompanied the floor and the wide frame mirror over the vanity.

It was a ramble to rival his appreciation for Kurt's chicken the night previous, and Kurt had just smiled that warm, silly smile and rolled his eyes over his own mug. A silent _you're ridiculous_ had passed between them, and Blaine had been left standing by the sink in his undershirt, still blinking in the morning light and thinking about how it played in waves across Kurt's hair.

His phone beeps in his pocket and Blaine is pulled back to reality where Kurt is leading them towards the pub. Obviously he's made the decision for them, and Blaine is glad. He's still a bit too shell-shocked by the revelation that he's actually attracted to Kurt to make an informed decision about anything, much less food.

"We can ask Puck and Finn about the festival whilst we eat," Kurt explains, stepping towards the open door. Blaine follows him, sliding open his phone, and feels a brief panic when he sees the text is from James.

James. Yes. His boyfriend. He'd forgotten about that one for a second, lost as he was in the shade of Kurt's eyes.

Perhaps James had been able to sense Blaine's straying thoughts, or perhaps he misses him. Perhaps it's something dirty. His heartbeat quickens.

He slides the message open.

_Your idiot brother is asking me when you're coming home. Get him off my back please. Oh, and I think I'll have to pull out of Sunday. _

That's it.

No dirty message or reprimand or smiley face or even an _I love you_ at the end.

Blaine can feel a trickle of cold down his spine that has nothing to do with the temperature outside and stuffs his phone back in his pocket. He'll call Cooper later when they've finished interviewing people. And James. Perhaps. He'll wait and see how he's feeling after dealing with his brother.

Maybe James could make the effort for once and think to call him.

He steps through the open door into the pub and is met with the delicious smell of hot chips frying in the kitchen. _AC DC_ is playing from speakers hanging on the walls and the television in the far corner is playing an old college football game.

Kurt is seated at the far end of the bar with his legs crossed neatly and there's a tall, somewhat lanky guy leaning over talking to him whilst cleaning glasses.

Kurt glances up and waves him over with a small smile and Blaine's stomach warms slightly.

"This is Blaine," he introduces, patting Blaine's back.

The tall man beams at him and holds a hand out to shake and Blaine almost misses it because _holy hell_ Kurt's hand is hot through his jacket and that really is impossible.

Blaine's wearing three layers of clothing and it still feels like it's minus degrees _inside_ the pub so there is now way Kurt's hand is actually _that hot_ on him. He needs to get a handle on his feelings before breaks down and throws Kurt up against the nearest door.

Despite the inward battle of the century, he thinks he manages to keep his cool, so instead he shakes the offered hand and tries not to feel too intimidated by the guy's height. He looks like he could be terrifying if not for the genuine grin spread across his face.

"Finn Hudson, barman and sometimes mechanic," the guy introduces. From behind the back of the bar another man emerges, swearing loudly and startling the other three. He slams into the side of the wall and then shakes his head and it takes Blaine a good few seconds to realise he's talking on the phone.

"That's Puck," Finn whispers loudly, and suddenly Blaine understands the name of the pub. He'd thought it might be some rather witty Shakespearian reference.

Evidently not.

"He's a good guy," Finn nods earnestly, and it says a lot about both men that Finn feels the need to lead with that statement. Finally Puck finishes on the phone, slamming it down in its cradle – Blaine thinks it might have been regarding an order placement - and turns to the pubs only other occupants.

"Hummel. You know any ways to kill a man and get away with it?"

Kurt huffs gently. "Only the one. Why?"

"Bloody people are ripping me off. Last week I ordered onions and carrots and instead I ended up with radishes and turnips. Who the hell eats radishes and turnips?"

"I –" Kurt lands a heavy hand on Blaine's arm and he shuts up. Puck turns towards him.

"Who are you?"

"This is Blaine," Finn explains. "He's..." the tall man ponders a moment. Kurt stays silent, evidently enjoying watching Finn struggle, and Blaine just feels slightly uncomfortable by the whole situation.

Not to mention a large part of him is still trying to recover from Kurt's hand on his shoulder.

"What _are_ you doing here, dude?" Finn asks, evidently confused by the newcomer.

"I'm a journalist."

"He's here to write about the Winter Festival."

Puck snorts. He leans down and hauls a box of ketchup dispensers upwards and then drops it onto the bar, making it rattle loudly. "Why the hell are you writing about the festival? Who wants to hear about that?"

"Apparently lots of people in Westerville," Kurt smirks, nodding in thanks as Finn lands a glass of water in front of him.

"Look," Blaine tries to appease, "I'm just here to find out about it. You never know, something interesting might come up."

The three men look at him blankly. Blaine fidgets. "Or not?"

"I wouldn't hold your breath," Kurt mumbles. He dips down to take a sip from his glass and catches the end of the straw between his teeth. He sucks lightly, and Blaine takes a moment to appreciate how soft his lips look, red around the white straw and glistening slightly from his drink.

The moment's silence is broken by Puck's obvious grunt, and Blaine snaps back to attention to see Finn and Puck looking at him like he's got two heads. Blaine sniffs softly. "What?" he asks, willing away the burn in his cheeks.

It's been a long time since he felt uncomfortable being caught checking out a guy, but it looks like it's been even longer since these two saw anyone checking out Kurt.

Obviously the gay population of Sylvester is rather limited.

Which brings him to the next problem. He doesn't actually know if Kurt is gay.

For all he knows Finn is looking at him like he's from another planet because Kurt's girlfriend is about to emerge through the open doors and slap him.

Blaine can feel his heart stutter at the thought but then thinks of the obvious fact that Kurt isn't living with anyone, and that he invited Blaine back to his house – a house that smelt like vanilla and in the bathrooms, lavender, and had matching tiles between the floor, the shower and the vanity, and really, Kurt just has to be gay because the universe has been cruel enough to Blaine in the past 24 hours!

It can't steal this from him as well.

Beside him Kurt is still sipping at his water, but the apples of his cheeks _are_ stained red and his legs are swinging gently where they don't quite touch the floor. Blaine feels a little more secure in his analysis and decides to change the subject.

"Maybe you two could tell me about how you got involved with McKinley's festival?" he announces loudly, pulling his pen and pad from his pocket.

"McKinley wishes it were their festival!" mutters Puck.

Blaine pauses his movements, glancing between the three men. "I thought it was..."

Finn snorts from where he's still polishing glasses, "No, the festival's always been ours."

When he doesn't elaborate further Blaine turns to Kurt, noting the slight smile that quivers at his jaw.

"I'm probably going to regret asking this, but why exactly is it known as the McKinley Festival then?"

"Same reason it's called the Winter Festival. And a harvest festival, at that. Considering the fact that there is no harvest in winter, you shouldn't be that surprised that the McKinley part of the name isn't accurate either."

Kurt beams at him. Blaine can only muster the energy to glare back.

"We don't have the room for an ice skating rink. McKinley does. So we convinced them to hold a giant festival for us."

"The only thing they asked for in return was the right to call it the _McKinley_ Winter Harvest Festival. Nobody here cared what it was called as long as we all got to ice skate and bob for apples," finishes Finn.

"That's not true," Kurt mutters, and the other three turn towards him.

Blaine picks up his pencil, thinks perhaps they're getting to a real story now; perhaps there's a tense political situation surrounding the festival; maybe the two towns Mayors are locked in deep battle over ownership – but then Kurt gets that gleam in his eye and Blaine lowers his pencil, sighing deeply.

"There was a meeting back when the festival began that lasted 35 hours over whether we could actually call it the _winter_ festival when it was in Spring," he explains giddily. "They locked the entire town in the hall and wouldn't let anyone out until it was resolved."

"Why on earth didn't everyone just agree?" Blaine asks incredulously.

"Oh they did," Kurt explains, smirking, "but there was one town member, Artemis Zizes, who liked to cause trouble and refused to agree. It took them 35 hours to trick him into taking a drink that someone had laced with their sleeping pills. When he fell asleep his vote became void and they all left. His daughter runs the library and has been bitter about it ever since."

"Dude, is that why she won't let anyone borrow?" Finn breathes in wonder.

Blaine drops his head in his hands and whines pitifully, "You're all insane, you know that?" he mumbles. Kurt just keeps giggling with that damn straw caught in his lips.

It's distracting and disconcerting and Blaine's phone feels like both a lead weight of guilty doom connected straight to his boyfriend but also a reminder of said boyfriend, and that is turning into an incentive to keep watching Kurt.

Blaine never wanted to be one of those boys who were distracted by others whilst dating. But James is...James is terse most of the time now and he hardly has time for Blaine unless he's fucking him and he doesn't like his brother, a fact that Blaine both understands and resents because Cooper Anderson can be an annoying asshole but he's also the most endearing annoying asshole on the planet.

Blaine thinks Kurt would perhaps like Cooper, if his relationship with Finn is anything to go by, and those two are only sort of stepbrothers. Blaine thinks Kurt would understand.

Speaking of Finn, the lanky giant is hovering awkwardly behind the bar watching the pair of them and looks concerned when Blaine doesn't pick his head up right away.

"Dude, is he okay?" he whispers, not so quietly, to Kurt. Blaine thinks perhaps he needs to be told that he's not very inconspicuous _at all._ Not when he's practically 7 foot tall and leaning over the bar next to him.

Kurt grins and catches Blaine's eye and is still holding his gaze when whispers back "He's okay," all the while twirling that damn straw with his tongue.

And through the haze of lust that Kurt's tongue produces, Blaine thinks it's possibly the best thing anybody has said about him.

Ever.

ooo

Their lunch is brought to them by Finn, via Puck sticking his head through the window separating the bar from the kitchen and yelling at the top of his lungs.

It startles Kurt and Blaine from the rather intense discussion they were having about Broadway, and only the smell of freshly fried chips can pull Blaine from rhapsodising about Rent.

"It's just, so full of hope?" he offers, biting into a chip, and the fresh burst of soft, fluffy potato sends a warmth down to his toes.

Kurt must notices because he pauses, smirking, with his burger hovering in his right hand. "Please don't tell me you're about to start singing the praises of the food here as well."

"I might, possibly. Yes," Blaine mumbles guiltily.

"I might have to be offended then," Kurt throws back.

Blaine glances up in surprise. Kurt is balancing his burger in front of his face and is nibbling at the small peak of beetroot out the side. His eyes are closed and his lips are parted and stained red with the beetroot and Blaine considers the logistics of throwing him down against the bench top.

Then thinks better of it when Finn stops directly in front of them to wipe said bench.

Blaine wonders if the tall man is psychic. Can he sense Blaine thinking dirty thoughts about his almost stepbrother?

Or maybe he doesn't have to be psychic...Blaine immediately schools his face into an intense look of serious concentration, and the screws his forehead up when Kurt's words finally register.

"Why would you be jealous?" he asks, noting the way Kurt's eyes pop when he realises Blaine was actually listening.

"You can't just go praising every meal you eat Blaine. It will make me feel like I'm not special. Like my chicken's not special."

And they're back to the chicken.

Blaine has the insane need to implore, "but you are special!" but thinks it might come out just a tad on the side of _too_ earnest and perhaps even _I'm desperately in love with you_ – and that's scary. Somehow in the space of three hours he's jumped from holy hell you're actually really gorgeous to I want to throw you up against a wall to I love you.

It took him 6 months to even ponder the idea of being in love with James, and on his better days he still questions it.

Finn looks like he's walked into a conversation he doesn't quite understand, and so slinks back towards the kitchen were Puck is singing loudly. They're still the only two in the pub, but it's a workday, so Blaine can understand. He remembers last night when they'd drove past the pub – it was packed with people enjoying the night after a hard days work.

"These chips are just really good, okay," he mumbles back, and the other man just rolls his eyes and takes a decisive bite of his burger.

They're almost done with lunch when the sound of footsteps grow louder and then the light from the open door casts a shadow as a very blonde woman stands in the way.

Blaine glances up at her and notes not only her very blonde hair, but also her very pregnant stomach, and hears Kurt pull a sharp breath from behind him.

He swivels back around; catches the other mans eyes, and then winces when the woman yells.

"Finn Hudson!"

Finn pops his head around the kitchen door and does an incredible impression of a startled meerkat.

"Meet Quinn Fabray. She owns the Diner down the road," Kurt whispers, watching the scene unfold before them as Quinn's hands level on her hips.

"Wait. Quinn and Finn? Really?" Blaine mumbles back.

Kurt flicks a finger against his shoulder. "They were together in high school, but then Finn joined the army for a few years and she went out with Puck. But then Finn came back and...well you get the picture."

Blaine nods dumbly. He feels a little odd with Kurt whispering this all in his ear whilst Quinn tells Finn off quietly in the corner.

"So wait. Who does the baby belong to?" he asks. Kurt flicks him in the shoulder again. Blaine not sure what's up with that because it seems like a legitimate question.

"Finn's. She hasn't been with Puck for over two years."

"And the two of them work together at the pub, side by side, no hard feelings?"

Here, Kurt stumbles. "Well. Finn doesn't really know the details."

Blaine swivels back around in his seat. "How?"

"He and Puck have been best friends since kindergarten. Finn knows something happened whilst he was away, but he and Quinn were broken up...and he doesn't know the extent to which they were together..."

"Which was?"

Blaine realises he might sound too eager. The look Kurt levels him with suggests he should perhaps put down his pencil and pad and loose the _i-just-found-the-story-of-the-century voice_, "I promise not a word of this is going near my story. I write news, not gossip."

Kurt doesn't look entirely sure there's a difference.

"Look," Kurt finally relents, "All I know is that Puck wanted to marry her. Quinn, obviously, did not feel the same way."

Blaine sits back in his seat. "Wow."

"Yeah."

In the kitchen Blaine can hear Puck whistling rather sweetly, overcutting the undertones of Quinn's sharp voice.

How do you watch the person you intended to marry slip from you? Right before your eyes. How does Puck live with the knowledge that Quinn is having another man's baby?

Blaine opens his mouth, intent on saying something meaningful, and then shuts it. He swallows.

"That's really fucked up," he finally offers.

Kurt looks over at his almost stepbrother in the corner and then meets Blaine's eye with a small smile, "Yeah, it is."

ooo

Sylvester in the afternoon is perhaps Blaine's favourite.

Not that he's had a lot of time to ponder the town, having only been here a day.

But it seems to him that when the school lets out and the children rush down the streets with their parents that the town seems to come alive with an indescribable energy that is lacking when they're all locked inside.

It also helps that in the afternoon Kurt is less guarded, a little more used to him, and is forced to press their arms together as they pass by a large group of school children outside _Sugar and Spice_.

"We should come back here in about an hour when all the kids have got their sugar fix," Kurt explains to him as they continue walking. He thinks they're headed towards the diner. He nods mutely and stuffs his hands in his pockets, glancing around him as another rush of children press towards the door.

"Sugar makes the best milkshakes this side of country, well, according to her they're the best this side of the country, but she's also pretty well known for her free drinks and sweets for kids who ask nicely, so this place is always packed after school."

Blaine grins broadly. "That's gorgeous!" he smiles wistfully.

Kurt shrugs. "I think it started because Brittany didn't realise she was supposed to be charging people. And then Sugar didn't have the heart to turn the little girls away. And then the boys realized and called it unfair."

Kurt waves his hands in front of himself haphazardly, and Blaine thinks it's rather adorable.

He's in danger of thinking everything about Kurt is adorable, however.

Minutes earlier a young girl had stopped Kurt to ask about their music lesson the following day, and Kurt had bent down to her level to explain how they would be continuing to learn about Latin music. Before Blaine's heart could completely give out at the sight of Kurt with a young child, a whole group of children had gathered around and started singing.

Blaine had been enchanted, and grinning broadly, had joined in on the song.

Very soon their was an impromptu sing-a-long happening on the side of the main street and women were passing by with smiles and Blaine was leading the children in a round of _Firework_ and angling towards another Katy Perry show stopper when he'd noticed Kurt's sudden absence.

The other man had wandered to the back of the group and was leant against the wall outside _Sugar and Spice_ with the most beautiful, serene smile Blaine had ever witnessed.

He'd drawn the song to a close and thanked the children enthusiastically for their sing-a-long, high fiving them as they wandered away, until only he and Kurt had been left standing.

"I didn't know you could sing," Kurt had murmured finally, and Blaine had chuckled, his face flushed.

"There's a lot you don't know about me," he'd offered back, and then turned to head down the street.

ooo

It's 4 in the afternoon and Blaine has been on his feet most of the day, Kurt quietly taking photos around him as Blaine wanders up to people on the street.

He's had a lovely conversation with an older lady outside the grocery store who'd told him about a dark time some 26 years ago, before the Winter Harvest Festival, when the entire town was on knifes edge and couldn't find a way to come together. She'd been so earnest that Blaine had wanted to hug her, and he's certain Kurt snapped a picture of him smiling adoringly as she rambled.

In the grocery store he'd met Mike, Tina's other half, and had immediately understood why the two of them were together. Unlike Quinn and Finn, who had seemed more likely to murder each other than smile, Mike and Tina seem to share the same ineffable charm and easygoing nature, even whilst apart. Blaine had been left with Mike's own tale of meeting Tina on the Ferris Wheel at age 5, as well as how he'd proposed to her some 20 years later at the top of the very same ride.

He's a little giddy as he and Kurt enter _Sugar and Spice_ – they'd avoided the diner when it became apparent Quinn was still in a temper. A tall woman Kurt had explained was Santana had sent a dark look Kurt's way and then motioned with her finger that Quinn was going a little crazy.

Kurt had cracked a smile and Santana had nodded her head towards Blaine, raising an eyebrow that Kurt had stared down immediately. This only made her laugh, and Kurt had flushed a deep red, leaving Blaine once again feeling completely out of the loop.

He asks about it again as they take a seat in the corner of the café, but Kurt refuses to dignify his digging with an answer.

"What do you think of this place?" Kurt asks instead, twinkling his fingers in a tiny wave at Sugar behind the counter.

Well, Blaine thinks. It's very pink. Very pink and very sweet – so sweet in fact Blaine thinks he can feel his teeth aching at the sight of it.

But it's entirely adorable.

There's pink and white striped wallpaper running halfway up the walls and then the top halves are painted a paler pink. Love hearts run around the skirtings and the tables and chairs all have tiny bows on them. If he's honest, it looks a little like a 1950's milk bar mixed with Minnie Mouses' dream cottage, and Blaine – who has loved pink in all its incarnations (colour, artist, and general feeling) – is even a little overwhelmed.

"It's very pink," he breathes, and Kurt barks a quick laugh.

"You said you work here sometimes?" Blaine prods, picking up a laminated menu from behind the napkins. He opens it and is met with the sight of every desert he could dream of.

"Sometimes, yes. Mostly when they need the extra service. I also do most of their finances. The girls are sweet, and lovely, and lord knows they know more about confectionary and baking than anyone else in this town...but they're not the brightest when it comes to actually making money."

Blaine snorts, nodding in understanding. He'd met Brittany when they wondered into the café and he can understand how her bubbly personality might not mesh with a head for business.

"You should ask Sugar and Brittany about the festival. I'm sure it's their favourite town event," Kurt says, standing up and heading towards the counter. He turns back when he reaches the display cases, and asks Blaine for his order.

"Umm, will you judge me if I ask for medium drip?"

Kurt's answering glare needs no translation. "How about a latte?"

Kurt's smile picks up. "And biscotti? And maybe one of those cupid shaped cookies. They're cute."

Blaine's not quite sure why they have cupid shaped cookies in April, but they look delicious.

A few minutes later Kurt rounds the counter again with their orders, placing his drink down and splitting the cookie and biscotti as well as a layered pastry that looks like it might be strawberry flavoured, between them.

Kurt shuffles softly in his seat, grinning, and Blaine pauses with his mug halfway towards his lips. "What?" he questions indulgently.

Kurt hums, shaking his head. "Oh nothing, I just can't wait to see your reaction to all of this. You were that impressed by Puck's fries that I'm half expecting you to reach nirvana."

Well now Blaine just feels pressured, and slightly embarrassed, but also deliciously buzzed because Kurt is teasing him – practically flirting with him – and he honestly can't remember the last time someone took such intense pleasure in his reactions.

He takes a small sip of his latte and immediately wants to slam it down on the table because fuck, it is delicious, but then he thinks the better of it because he actually wants to savour every last drop of this magic drink.

He moans something pornographic and then doesn't realise until Kurt swallows deeply and looks almost startled because sometimes Blaine's sex noises and his food noises are very similar and he forgets that that's not quite normal.

He clears his throat and shuffles in his seat, but doesn't apologise, because for a second Kurt had looked like he wanted to try and make Blaine make that noise by himself, no coffee included, and Blaine wants to explore that idea a little further.

Okay, a lot further. But first he wants to finish his latte.

"This is the best thing I've ever tasted."

Kurt laughs delightedly and sips from his own mug, nodding to himself. "Of course it is."

"Did you make this?"

"I did."

"You are very talented," Blaine mumbles, trying to intersperse his drinking with little compliments.

Kurt just nestles back in his chair and smiles that broad grin that is already Blaine's favourite. He looks completely relaxed for the first time all day and Blaine wants him to stay that way. Wants the bunching in his shoulders to drop and the small crinkle in his forehead to smooth and the crease of his smile to grow, and some deep selfish part of him wants all of this to happen because of his presence.

He's not stupid, despite what Nick and Jeff like to tell him, and he knows he's only known Kurt for...not even 24 hours.

But he's a storyteller by trade even if he deals in real life, and at the heart of every storyteller is belief.

And he believes in Kurt.

Believes he's _falling_ for Kurt.

It's been 22 hours and Blaine is already a little in love with this boy and his town.

Give it another 20 or so and he's sure he'll be in love all the way.


End file.
